


to be in a witless game

by lockedfromutopia



Category: Utopia (TV 2013)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Guilt, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Some Plot, kinda gross, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedfromutopia/pseuds/lockedfromutopia
Summary: “You’re shit with a gun, shit with a knife, you can’t really hurt me without me letting you so,” Lee’s breath ghosts Wilson’s beard when he leans in again, moving to Wilson’s ear as he adds. “This is as good a chance to as you’ll ever have, skipper.” M/M. What happens after Wilson's task to kill Roy in the abandoned parking garage, S2.04.
Relationships: Wilson Wilson/Lee
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	to be in a witless game

**Author's Note:**

> 82% Lee rage-baiting Wilson, 15% smut, 3% feelings talk.

Roy slumps in the chair. The moment the bullet makes contact, the blood sprays and his head lolls forward at an angle. The warehouse is silent, save for the dripping of Roy’s blood to the floor and Wilson’s racing heart that he swears it feels like it’s becoming part of the walls. He hasn’t drawn a breath since he lifted the gun and pulled the trigger, he’s scared he’ll burst when he does but his throat and chest tighten. Wilson concedes to drawing short breaths that too quickly escalate to shaken gasps and dry sobs, his grip on the gun shaking as he lowers it to his side.

He wants to cry but the tears don’t come and all he can manage are the harsh gasps that begin to quiet, the mild nausea slowly subsiding as he flickers his gaze from the two MI5 agents back to Roy’s tilted and open head. He goes silently stiff for several long minutes, and then, with a shaky sigh, he composes himself enough to shove the gun in the deep pockets of his trench and swallow hard, dragging himself from the scene to the hallway he’d spoken with Milner hours ago. He expects to be alone, not to see Lee there nursing his e-cigarette without a care in the world.

When he looks at Wilson, he smiles like they’re old friends and like he hadn't smashed a crowbar to Wilson’s ankle, killed his dad and put his eye out. If he knew no better, Wilson might have snapped at him or shot him between the eyes, but the exhaustion of his kills and his fear of Lee stops him cold from opening his mouth. He hates his hesitation as much as the mischievous crinkles on the corner of Lee’s eyes and smug smile. Without the fear, Wilson suspects that he wouldn’t have an idea of how to avenge his father, which he hates most of all.

“How was it then, Wilson?” asks Lee like they’re only talking about the weather. He takes a languid drag from his cigarette. His voice is honeyed, almost soothing and kindly. Wilson knows he wouldn’t be wiser to Lee’s cunning if he’d been tricked to certain death rather than tortured for information he hadn’t had.

“Why are you here?” asks Wilson tiredly.

“Don’t sound so eager, skipper. As you can imagine she had some doubt that you wouldn’t follow through, and that is why I’m here.” says Lee.

“So if I hadn’t, you'd have killed those men and me.” states Wilson matter-of-factly. He remembers that a couple of days after he freed Conran Letts, he read about his consequential ‘suicide’ on the Richmond Lock and Weir where he hanged himself. He’s no fool to their operations; they staged his father’s murder as a botched burglary and made Grant a wanted criminal after all. Despite knowing it, Wilson still feels a twinge of disappointment that Milner has less faith in him than she conveyed and that he’s disposable.

Perhaps it should have made him miss his friends, a term he considers gracious, but it doesn’t. He festered in some guilt and shame in turning on them, but he largely felt and still feels relief. He didn’t have to feel the overwhelming solitude in a room with their company. After that interrogation, he'd been little more than a burden to Becky that she fussed over in absence of Jessica and Ian, and she would only see Wilson for a daft friend no matter their circumstances, he figures. Besides that, there'd been the shared discomfort of Ian and Grant, always looking at Wilson a moment too long in silent aghast at a fate they narrowly avoided, and Jessica fed lies for her own interest when she wasn’t disappearing or fixating on Ian. It was really their decision to keep him in the dark about his father for that long that drove an already existing wedge deeper for Wilson. Despite his hurt, he does wonder if they noticed he hadn't come back with Jessica and Grant, and what she would have told them if they had asked.

He frowns when he notices Lee flick the cigarette elsewhere and stalk towards him. Wilson backs away to a wall where he’s cornered, too scared to be frustrated at his own error in judgment. Lee smiles, lowers his hazel eyes from Wilson’s patch to his bearded mouth and back up. All they hear between them is Lee’s unsteady breathing, which hitches every so often in a rasp. Wilson holds his breaths in, terrified as he watches Lee closely.

“That is how it works, but it’s like I’ve said.” Lee murmurs, gazing at Wilson as he tightly smiles. “She’s gotten soft. She asked me to confirm the job was done, but she made it oh-so-absolutely, abundantly clear that I wasn’t to do anything to you besides a school teacher’s scolding if you hadn’t done it, which isn’t necessary either. Is it, Wilson?”

When Wilson says nothing, only swallows, Lee continues as if he isn't bothered.

“So, how did it feel to kill them?”

“It felt necessary.” Wilson relents, a hint of regret in his otherwise flat tone. He snapped at Ian sometime before he left them, said that Ian hadn’t lost anything in comparison to him and Becky, and now that he actively took from Ian, he feels like he could rot into the floor, and Ian would readily agree, he knows. How would he face him then?

“That’s all, is it? Just necessary?" asks Lee, a slight pout of disappointment on his face.

“...I don’t know what you’re asking for! What is it you want to know, Lee? You kill everyday without any ounce of guilt or shame, what’s it to you that I’m exhausted of it yet?” asks Wilson indignantly.

Lee hums in what most would consider a sympathetic tune, but Wilson’s wiser to it. He lifts his hand to stroke Wilson’s bearded cheek in mock tenderness, Wilson flinches first then goes to push Lee away by the chest when Lee tuts. A cursory glance from him to the bag by his feet makes Wilson stiff, Wilson’s hand subtly shifts into the pocket where the gun rests.

“You forgot to add torture there, Wilson. Of all people, I really did expect you to know it best.” Lee chuckles.

Wilson presses the gun to Lee’s throat.

“Aren’t yet past it, are we, Wilson?” asks Lee, unbothered by the gun's pressure on his Adam's apple.

“Past you ruining my fucking life, you mean? No, I’ll never be fucking past that! How’s that even a question you ask?!” Wilson snaps.

“But Wilson,” Lee licks his lips and smiles brighter this time, making Wilson’s throat feel tight, “weren’t you the one that suggested we were even? What about that has changed?”

The Cheshire smirk makes spikes boil in Wilson’s fiery veins. It’s a fury he hasn't experienced before, usually there’s the anguish and confusion to ground him from the frantic violence but there’s neither now, he’s just teetering between fury and fear. Between the reasons to hurt Lee and the reasons to escape the situation unscathed, Wilson finds that as foolish as it is to want Lee hurt by his hands, it’s all he can think to feel. His socket that sometimes itched and burned under his patch was a constant reminder of Lee’s deserving of pain.

Though Wilson can't recall feeling so wrathful for another person before him, even with the encounters he had as a boy in public school. Dragging the stench of the garbage bin and his wounded pride home, a new bruise or burn he’d explain as an accident to his dad if he hadn’t cleaned up on time to him coming home. For as much as Wilson wants to smash Lee’s teeth from his grinning mouth, there remains a nauseating part of him that doesn’t want to hurt anymore people, that doesn't want to stoop to Lee’s level. Yet what could he hope to accomplish clinging to that bit of himself? And isn’t it too late for that, when he just murdered Ian’s brother?

“You took a crowbar to my leg. That’s what fucking changed.” Wilson deadpans, surprised at his tonal restraint.

“If only there was a hatchet or a cleaver instead,” Lee laughs gleefully as he presses his face closer to Wilson, the gun digging firmly into his throat, and he bats his eyes like a flirt trying to be cute. “I’d have taken your calf and foot, so they could replace it with a plank. Imagine the sound you’d make walking into a room! Wilson, you’d be a model sea captain then, wouldn’t you!”

Lee sputters in hearty fits of laughter before Wilson whipped him across the face with the gun, he fails to contain himself even at the sting of his nose and busted lip.

“I should shoot your brains out now.” says Wilson.

“Do you think yourself scary now, Wilson? Feeling so big and bad after your first kills, you’d add a fourth?” asks Lee in a low choked laugh, blood smearing down his nose and lip.

“I might do, Lee.” says Wilson.

“We both know that you won’t, or you’d have done it by now.” Lee grins, tasting iron and salt from the blood that smudged his lip. He laps it up too eagerly.

Wilson hates that Lee's right. All the things he’s done and continues to do, but Wilson still can’t bring himself to pull this trigger, it’s more shameful than anything. He knows there’s more to sparing Lee than the morality of it and the desperation to not be like him. It's his usefulness to the Network, that’s what Wilson tells himself, pretending that he hadn't glanced at Lee licking the blood from his lips and wondered how it would taste and feel on his mouth. He worms away from Lee and shoves the gun back in his pocket, turning his back to him. It would be best for both of them to leave things here.

“Awww, don’t go, Wilson. I was just having fun!” Lee laughs again, and without looking, Wilson can feel Lee’s efforts to keep the rest of his giddy laughter trapped inside his quivering form.

“Why d’you insist on it? I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it.” says Wilson exasperatedly.

“Insist on what, Wilson?” asks Lee.

“Fucking with me!” Wilson snaps in the same exasperation, turning back to Lee with his hands emphatically patting on his chest. “Why, Lee?! There’s no incentive for it!”

Lee raises his brow, the trapped laughter that shook his frame long stopped from where he stands.

“No incentive, Wilson? You’re wrong about that since fucking with you has been all my incentive now. You know, I had quite an earful when she noticed your limp, but the funny thing is… if I had done that to anyone else before, she couldn’t be bothered to give a shite. How is it that I’ve been in for the better part of twelve years and fucking paralyzed, but you waltz in with your little-bitty ideas and boss me around and I can’t lay a finger on you without some fucking reprimanding?”

Lee laughs bitterly after he spits the vehement words out, flicking the folded handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbing the blood from his nose. This time that Lee nears him, Wilson doesn’t move away and cower. Lee’s tone shifts, taking on that honeyed murmur and placid smile to match, folding the soiled handkerchief back up and discarding it.

“Do you know what got me through recovery, skipper?” Lee closes the gap, fiddling with Wilson’s lapel with a wry smile. “The fucking tedious physical therapies?”

“Spit it out then.” Wilson mutters. He tries not to notice the vengeful gleam in Lee’s eyes, the clench of his jaw as he fixes his smile back and blinks at him.

“Imagining all of the ways to kill you, if you weren’t already dead.” Lee declares, and the way he says it to Wilson’s face like it’s the funniest thing in the world, it ought to make him angry enough to deck him in his grinning face again with that gun. “I would have made it slower, and much, much worse than the spoon. Oh, I was counting on it.”

“I guess you can’t do that anymore. Can you, Lee?” Wilson chuckles darkly, smiling in a cruelness of his own. “And how's that make you feel? Reckon it just… drives you mad, doesn’t it?”

Lee’s smile tightens. He blinks again, and Wilson can see the contained anger in those eyes, the yearning to wrap his one good hand around Wilson’s throat, to choke him to death on the floor, and maybe all the ways that Lee imagined have been worse than that. Lee drops his hand from Wilson’s lapel, in no hurry to answer until Wilson forces his eyes back on him.

“Well? How’s it make you feel?” Wilson demands.

“I didn’t know what it would be like, to want someone so badly dead under your own hands that you just couldn’t.” says Lee, his smile crinkling away to a wondrous frown. “It’s like a slow death of its own for me. A cancer that just eats away at you. What about you, Wilson? Do you feel the same anytime I make you remember your dad? It wasn’t that quick, you know. A lot of my blood mixed with his.”

And as quickly as his smile went, it quirks back up. Wilson slams Lee to the wall by his back when he’s laughing again. He always does this when Wilson thinks he has the upper hand, and Wilson always takes the bait.

“Did you ever wonder what it was like for him, Wilson? What his last words were? What his pain was like? Or even… how betrayed he felt that you weren’t there when he needed you the most?” asks Lee eagerly, breathless.

“Shut the fuck up! Shut up, or I’ll…” Wilson throttles Lee, hot tears stinging in his eye that he tries to blink away.

“Well, if it's any comfort, it was quick. Merciful, even. I reckon the agony have been more intense if I cut his throat open with my knife instead. I like going slowly with the blade, as well. The karambit for example—”

“I said to shut the fuck up, Lee!” Wilson shouts, and when he reaches for the gun in his pocket, it’s not there. He hears the click, snapping his eye up to see Lee dismantling it and throwing the pieces behind Wilson. He hadn't felt Lee's hand in his pocket, he was watching him talk.

“Whoops.” Lee blinks, smiles. “Were you needing that?”

Wilson slugs his fist across Lee’s face over and over, and Lee doesn’t act defensively. That should be suspicious, annoying even, but Wilson’s several punches in before a furious howl escapes him and he topples them to the floor. He hasn’t given Lee any time to recover, the blood is streaming down his nose and the side of his misaligned jaw but he laughs and grins through it, and Wilson doesn’t know for how long he’s choking, throttling, squeezing on his throat until Lee finally squirms and his erection brushes Wilson’s leg. Wilson freezes.

Normal people would be embarrassed, resign themselves for the night and pretend nothing happened the next day as professionals do, but neither of them moves despite being well-aware. Then again, what could Wilson expect from Lee? He has no capacity to feel remorse, why would embarrassment be an option? When Wilson glances at him, albeit hesitantly, Lee smirks at Wilson with blood smearing his mouth again. Wilson stares, then glances at his erection and back up.

“What’s the matter, Wilson?” asks Lee in his chipper tone, “Never seen a stiffy before?”

“Wh-what? N-no, that’s—for fuck’s sake! Why are you hard?!” Wilson stammers, lost. Lee grabs hold of his lapel again, dragging him down for a searing kiss where their teeth clash and Lee’s tongue maps out Wilson’s mouth. The tang of salt and iron is all they can taste in the kiss, but it can’t be called that, because that’s something reserved for people who like each other to do, Wilson reckons. Whatever they’re doing is more teeth bumping and snaking of tongues, but that is quickly dulled by the sting of Lee’s teeth on his lower lip. 

That's when Wilson pulls back, startled.

"What are you...?"

“You can have me, Wilson.” Lee murmurs between pants, his hand resting on Wilson’s shirt.

He's startlingly solemn, no grin or quivers to indicate a laugh fit, and that only makes Wilson more dumbfounded, the rage and sorrow forgotten. He blinks, frowns, and waits for Lee to laugh in his face and taunt him as he oft. When it doesn't come for several quiet breaths, Lee's hand moves to tug Wilson back for a kiss by his lapel that Wilson stops, clearing his throat.

“Sorry, I don’t… I don't get it.” He laughs sheepishly, expecting Lee to burst at his expense or even to walk off after injuring him again.

Lee sits up level to Wilson, leaning forward. His face is inches from Wilson's, and his lips curl in an odd half smile. Wilson doesn't move away, even when he feels his heart leap to his throat at the threatening proximity.

“You’re shit with a gun, shit with a knife, you can’t really hurt me without me letting you so,” Lee’s breath ghosts Wilson’s beard when he leans in again, moving to Wilson’s ear as he adds. “This is as good a chance to as you’ll ever have, skipper.”

Wilson feels his face burn in shame, even though he isn’t the one to say anything. He isn’t sure what to say or how to react, he knows himself to be weaker than most. For as world-weary as Wilson thinks himself to be, he's never let anyone in too close; the fear of inevitable rejection, or of failing them in some way was too consuming a thought, especially when an integral part of Wilson's awakening was losing his mother early on. The awareness of his fears hadn't made the dull ache of longing end; the wanting to be connected to someone through trust and tenderness. He supposes it would be something like or close to what Becky and Ian seem to have. Except with Lee, there’s no kind of romantic investment; it’s all vengeful, angry, and convenient for both of them. That’s why the idea has, on occasion, flickered through Wilson’s mind in passing when Lee leans a little too close to murmur another infuriating taunt to bait Wilson into a one-sided confrontation where he always wins, because Wilson will never beat Lee at a game he’s played for longer than they’ve known each other. Even now, Wilson supposes that this, too, would be an unwinnable game for him to play if he chooses to.

That’s how Wilson finds himself on a chair in the hallway, Lee crouched between his parted legs as he undoes his fly with that smug smile. Lee glances up at Wilson, tugging his erection out from the articles and stroking. Wilson holds his gaze, stifling his pleased grunts when Lee swipes his tongue over the head, and he takes hold of Lee’s coiffed hair. It’s easier than Wilson expected, to hold eye contact with Lee as he sucks him off, daintily clutching the bit he can’t fit in his mouth, every so often flicking his tongue in circles over the head and running it down the sides. Despite himself, Wilson fails to keep a groan or two stifled, but he tells himself that pride means nothing now when he’s chosen to sleep with his enemy.

Wilson strokes his hair in the same mock tenderness that Lee did for his beard, but Lee doesn’t catch on yet, preoccupied with swallowing down on his length and licking, and all he has for a warning is Wilson tightening the grip on his hair before he abruptly thrusts into his mouth. He utilizes his grip on his hair to guide Lee’s pace on his length, seeming to be invigorated by Lee’s gagging, his face tinged fuchsia.

“Mmfph, Wifsen..” Lee moves his hand to Wilson’s thigh where he squeezes. His chest burns and sears warningly, he tries to keep his sniffling even and steady, but as the burning in his abdomen tightens like Wilson’s grip on his hair, it becomes irregular and panicked. Lee’s eyes flicker, he feels his throat just give, a dull gag emitting anytime the back of it is hit. He can distinctly taste the salty precome, his coppery blood, and the bile threatening to burst up. Lee squeezes on Wilson’s thigh firmly this time, digging his nails in.

“What’s that, Lee? Would you like to breathe?” asks Wilson innocently, peering down at the flushed face that isn’t as smug as before.

Lee nods as much as Wilson’s vice grip allows and Wilson tugs Lee’s head off of his graciously lathered length, leaving Lee sputtering desperately for as much needed air as he can suck in, coughing into the stained handkerchief. Wilson almost expects Lee to rush him and break or bruise a limb, but he just smiles.

“Was it good, Wilson?” He asks hoarsely, the bitter afterburn stuck in his scratchy throat. The dominant taste is his blood.

“It was serviceable.” says Wilson, glancing at Lee’s erection. “Up on the wall then.”

“What next, Wilson?” Lee lets out a raspy laugh of some sort as he complies, Wilson unbuckles Lee’s belt and shucks his yellow trousers low enough to expose him. “Gonna fuck me now?”

Wilson goes to turn Lee's back to him when Lee grabs onto his arm, leaning in for a kiss that Wilson ducks his head away from, resigning to face him as his slick tip breaches the outside of Lee’s entrance.

“Wilson, try not to wrinkle my trousers." says Lee, locking his arm around Wilson's neck.

“I’m going inside of you now, Lee.” says Wilson, calmer than he feels. He nudges inside, and for as slick as Wilson is, he still expected some kind of resistance and a slow ease to the warmth, so when he makes contact with a cold and gradually accommodating passage, he sends Lee a withering look. “Did you fucking plan this?”

Lee grins stupidly, like he's pretending he doesn't know what Wilson means and steals a kiss that isn't returned. Wilson grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, sharply pushing back in and slamming into Lee with vigorous abandon, one of his hands braced on Lee's hip in a bruising grip while his opposite wraps around Lee's throat loosely at first, stifling the appreciative moan. Lee’s untouched length rubs on Wilson’s clothed stomach anytime he moves, smearing the precome on his shirt.

“Wilson… ah, Wilson, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to touch myself as well.”

“If you can’t behave yourself and keep your hand off, I’ll break it.”

“No need for it then..” Lee mutters, Wilson’s fingers squeezing firmly on his throat.

“How's it then, Lee? Am I shit?” asks Wilson flatly, finally gazing at him.

Lee opens his mouth to speak when all that comes is a drawn out moan, Wilson’s tip brushing his prostate in the reckless movement of his hips. The fullness of him makes Lee’s stomach ache and twist, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Wilson’s hand squeezes his throat and that only excites Lee more, a string of quiet noises vibrating against Wilson’s hand. He cups his hand over Wilson's on his throat, squeezing it gently.

“S’good, Wilson…This all you want?” Lee rasps out against the crushing pressure on his larynx.

There’s that smile he hates again, Wilson chokes him harder as he speeds his savage thrusts, Lee’s back ramming into the wall and the most noise he manages is the repeated but stifled “uns” of a talking doll that keeps getting smashed on by a disgruntled child. Lee’s eyes flutter, and despite the satisfaction in his smile, the power over him in that moment is what sends Wilson off. He groans, face ducking into Lee’s shoulder as he eases and drops the chokehold, spilling deep inside of him. He’s too spent to make a move off, even when he wanted to before Lee’s release to avoid the staining. Wilson feels Lee’s rapidly trembling chest against his as he unsteadily gulps mouthfuls of air. He never removed Lee’s shirt to see it, and he wonders.

“You can take it off next time, if you’re that curious.” says Lee, chipper as ever.

It’s annoying that he knows what Wilson’s feeling and thinking by a cursory glance. Wilson stares at him as Lee flashes his smile at him, fixing his suit without a care in the world.

“Next time? Do you hear yourself?” Wilson furrows his brows, ignoring the swelling in his chest at the idea.

“You rather liked it, didn’t you?” asks Lee. He isn’t smiling nor scowling, but he has that look about his eyes like he’s analyzing him again, and Wilson could be stark-naked and not be as uncomfortable as right now.

“Well, I did, but… so did you, but this sort of thing, it’s not…” Wilson stammers, beet-red flustered as he shyly gestures, clearing his throat, “It’s just… odd. We hate each other, and to do this is odd, Lee.”

“Oh, Wilson," Lee clicks his tongue, smiles, and rests his arm around Wilson, "I don’t hate you. Not a bit.”

“Well, you don’t, which I'm not convinced, but I hate you. A lot actually, Lee.” Wilson grumbles, batting Lee’s arm off.

“I quite like you. In whatever amount that there’s leniency to do what you’d like to me.” Lee muses, nonchalant as he walks over to retrieve his bag.

“That's not... that's not how it works when you—" Wilson sighs, looking up at the flickering lights to avoid the amusement in Lee's eyes. "Just come out and say it, Lee. Christ. Whatever you're itching to throw at me now."

Lee's smirking as he fixes a cigarette between his lips, raising his brow.

"I did, Wilson." He pinches Wilson's cheek tight, then retrieves his bag. "Told you not to wrinkle my trousers, skipper. Be more considerate the next time, won't you? Oh, and don't forget to button up before you walk out."

Wilson seethes as Lee’s footsteps fade out. He glances down at the mess on his shirt and forcibly buttons up, annoyed with himself and with Lee once again. If he really thought reminding Wilson that he murdered his father and maimed him for life was some kind of flirting, Wilson really doesn’t want to know what other concepts Lee’s mind has for relationships outside of target and marksman.


End file.
